Dirty Filthy Hand Jobs in British Truck Stop Restrooms

The large truck window reached almost down to his knees. The figure of a hand carved wooden gnome in a red hat lay on the dashboard, a souvenir trinket. The smooth surface was blotched with dirt stains. A cleaning rag next to it had reached the critical point of containing more dirt than it was willing to absorb. A few paper wrappers lay on the passenger side floor, trampled with black footprints.

A short string of almost black wooden beads swung in a restrained way with the turns of the road through the forest. A previous driver, long since fired and forgotten, had left it there. Nobody had bothered to remove it. The road was black from the recent rain and the low light of dusk.

Liam put the roaring engine into next gear. Liam had the stature of a boxer with all the muscle melted into fat and oozed downward. He sported a pot belly and big thighs that he put into workout pants to comfortably sit for hours in his truck. His head was shaved and his full beard trimmed at a half an inch for comfort. A black wool beanie that he had picked up for 5 pounds at a discount store always covered his head. There was no reason to wear it in the heated cabin, but he wore it out of habit and because it was easier than finding it again before getting out at rest stops.

He picked up the CB radio and held it to his mouth..

"Bear trap shooting you in the back on A51 at Hurleston. This is Giant Robot. Back out." [Bear trap is a radar trap.]

Crackling static followed the announcement. Liam's face grew focused as he listened.

"10-4. This is Tinder Can. Good to hear you Giant Robot. Those are baby bears. They have been there all day. How's your better half?" [10-4 means okay. Baby bears are rookie cops.]

"Tinder Can, you still pushing dispatcher brains? My better half kicked the can a year ago. The sugar killed her." [dispatcher brains means to drive a very light or empty trailer.]

"Sorry to hear, Giant Robot. Gotta watch the road now. I have a bumper sticker." [bumper sticker is a car following very closely.]

Liam pulled into the long diagonal painted parking spots for trucks. The parking lot was dark with distant lights reflecting on the wet street. White and red dots moved on the floor, reflections of passing cars on the road. The bright blue and white sign of the truck stop signaled the direction for him. He jumped out of his truck cabin, exhaling mist in the cool air, and waddled with a wide stance and toes pointing out toward the entrance door.

A cool interior with halogen lights welcomed him indifferently, as if the building saw another customer and shrugged. The sole window was shuttered with a metal blind. The floor, walls, and ceilings were covered with bluish gray tiles that had dingy white lines in between them. That way the cleaning was easier.

The tables had a central pole that was bolted in place with a plastic top. The plastic top had a round edge and roughened up surface so that the food trays would not slide. The only customers were two truckers at a table and a woman at the counter. One of the truckers was a young bloke in sweat pants with a zippered sweatshirt that had a sleek material and soccer insignia. His legs were splayed wide and faced the center of the room. The other guy wore a heavy leather jacket and blue utilitarian postman trousers. He sat leaning forward deeply focused on stirring a white cup with black liquid.

The metal counter ran along the side of the whole restaurant. The metal was shiny and reflective. The barstools were simple floor bolted poles with round brown upholstery. Behind the metal counter was the kitchen. A young chef with black hair and white apron hit a cutting board with a hatchet in a rough and random fashion. A waitress with a striped waitress dress and apron had a face as worn as the streets of the Scottish highlands. Her hair was blond and long, without conditioner, styling or decent hair cut.

The wide cheeks of the waitress flapped down when she opened her mouth and knocked on the counter.

"Welcome, honey! Can I get you started on a coffee?"

"Na, just give me a scampi and a beer. The Norway lobster here is the dog's bollocks."

Liam stole a sideway glance down the counter. The only other counter guest was a thirty year old red head. Her long, smooth hair hung down to the bottom of her shoulder blade in a sad sag. Her thin leather jacket hung like a long slender sack on her. Her pants were of a dull tone. On her back was a large red leather bag. The fabric of the bag was loose and collected as a sag beneath the handles. Her face was pale and without luster. She silently scribbled onto a torn off piece of paper. A finished, dirty plate was in front of her.

"Mister! How much further is it to Nantwich?"

"Oh, it's about another half hour. Do you come here often?"

"Do I look like it?"

"No, no, I did not mean to insult you."

"Good. I am passing through to Nantwich. Have you been trucker for a long time?"

"Yeah, I have been trucking all my life. You don't have to deal with people that way."

They fell into silence. Liam's scampi arrived. His fork poked through the breaded Norway lobster and potato slices. His mind was absorbed with soccer and beer. When he was nearly done, the woman had come within two seats of him dragging her purse behind her from one seat to the next.

"What's your name mister?"

"I am Liam."

"My name is Charlotte. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Are you friendly or are you selling life insurance. 'cause my wife just died. I sure don't need any."

"Actually, I have a proposition." Liam sat up more straight and raised some of the fat of his belly that had been collecting into a ball from his hunched over seating position. "For fifty pounds..." Charlotte cleared her head and firmed her face. "For fifty pounds, I will give you a hand job, right here in the bathroom. You don't have to be an arse about it. Just says yes or no."

"Fifty pounds," repeated Liam slowly. Charlotte looked a bit like a heroine addict. However, she did not have the dark eye circles. Maybe she was simply destitute. She definitely was not a looker. On the other hand, his wife had died a year ago. And even then she was never very gorgeous. Liam mentally counted his money. He had about 70 pounds left.

"Right here," repeated Liam.

Charlotte placed her long, slender, pale hands on his big arms under the baggy sweater. "You look kind of sexy with that black beanie."

"Ha, you are the first one to notice. You ain't got a rough chap waiting for me in that loo?"

Charlotte lifted two fingers into the air. The red nail polish was starkly colorful in this environment. Her other hand reached through the neck opening under her clothes to touch her heart. "I swear that I am here by myself. And, for fifty pounds, we could be together."

"Okay." Liam slid his big butt off the bar stool and threw a twenty pound bill onto the counter with his meaty, hairy hand. Charlotte got onto her gray high heels and slipped a cigarette out of the inside pocket in one smooth move. They were both the same height. She was a third of his circumference as she walked in front of him. The waitress leaned over the counter to see them move to the back and then continued with her job.

A short black hallway down was the door to the men's restroom. Charlotte opened the door and stormed in. In the middle of the restroom, she stopped to look around. Her stance was unsure and nervous on her tall towering legs and high heels. Her puffs on the cigarette were quick and abrupt.

The restroom had a single functioning light left. The walls and stalls were littered by black marker graffiti, mostly scribbles and rudimentary drawings. The floor was littered with hand towels, food wrappers, and general garbage that had been pounded flat by the foot traffic. One of the two stalls had a broken door that rested next to the open toilet bowl.

Charlotte pushed open the other stall with her hand outreached. The stall was small. She wrapped six turns of toilet paper around her hand. Then, she circled the toilet paper over the seat to scrape away the dried pee and grime. Deep knife cuts made to graffiti had collected black dirt. The one month old dark yellow pee stains did not come off. Charlotte kept her body and limbs close together while doing the precise work. She was tense and nervous.

"Here, have a seat."

"You don't want the money first?"

"No, pay after."

Liam stepped into the stall, pulled his pants to his ankles, and sat down. He did not mind the filthy toilet seat. He had been a trucker his whole life. And, even if the woman was ugly and desolate, she was feminine deep underneath. At least, she was the closest thing for him for a connection to the feminine life force.

The stall was narrow and small. Charlotte had to carefully pitch herself between the toilet bowl and his legs to be able to close the door. She kept her handbag over her shoulder and squatted down. Her knees were neatly together and pointed more toward the front of the stall. She had to turn her torso sideways to face his groin. Her right hand grabbed his almost completely erect penis with ginger hands. Her palms felt cool from the nervousness.

"So, you are uncircumcised?"

Liam leaned back and half closed his eyes to feel his cock more vividly. "Yes, ma'am."

Her fist started pummeling his penis. She looked on cold, while he melted deeper into joy and relaxation. Every once in a while, she pulled on her cigarette without pausing her pumping.

After five minutes, her leg started tingling. Because the space was so tight, she had to steady herself by holding his knee, so that she could shift her weight. She also switched her hand and shook her tired hand. Liam looked down at her.

"Could you kiss it?"

"No."

"Well, you are doing great."

A minute later a man shuffled into the room to unleash a hissing piss into the urinal next to the stall.

"Oh, we are caught," whispered Liam.

"C'mon," yelled Charlotte, "what is he going to do? He'll be out in a minute."

The outside man continued his bathroom business pretending not to hear the meat getting spanked.

Liam's penis started pulsing more frequently now. Charlotte pulled a long wad of toilet paper off the roll and held it ready for the sperm to spew. Ten seconds later, Liam moaned. She squeezed the penis with all her strength. He silently thanked her for it. She wiped the rest of the cum from his penis like a mother clears boogers out of a child's nose.

She did the same shuffle between his knees and the toilet bowl to open the door. She stood in front of the mirror to prepare herself for the outside world. Liam was sprawled out on the filthy toilet. He mentally suited up for the real world again and collected his sweatpants over his ass.

He stepped next to her at the mirror.

"To let you know, the faucet is broken and the paper towels are out. Your dick scent will be on my hand for the rest of the day. Just thought you'd love to know that. And feel free to tip, if you liked the performance."

Liam got the fifty note out of his worn leather wallet. "Sorry, that's all I got. You were lovely."

Charlotte left the room. He looked at himself in the mirror in between the graffiti scribble. His beanie did make him look a bit dapper. It could have been worn by a spy on a barge in a movie.

He stepped out into the rainy night. He found her shivering under the entrance roof.

"You look mighty cold. How did you get here? You aren't a truck driver, are you? I don't see any passenger cars in the lot."

"Well, I am looking for a ride to Nantwich."

"You're in luck. I happen to be driving there. I can give you a ride."

"That would be terrific."

The two sat silently in the truck cabin. The yellow lights of street lamps and oncoming cars moved past them. Occasionally a small cluster of buildings or bright traffic lights of an intersection interrupted the monotone dark forest night.

Charlotte rustled a cigarette out of her jacket that she still wore in the heated cab.

"No, you can't smoke in here," said Liam scruffily.

"What if I showed you one tit?"

"Okay. Let's see it."

She pulled down her top and bra to show the left breast. It was a skinny, long, saggy boob with a rosy red and perfectly shaped nipple. The soft color was very tender. The top of the nipple was creased and professed to its function of expressing milk. He took a long sideways look on a straight stretch. She waited patiently to ensure that he got a full look. Then, she lit up the cigarette.

"Roll down the window."

"It's freezing air out there."

"Your titty show did not buy you smoking up the cab."

She pulled down the window and swiftly inhaled to finish the cigarette faster.

"What do you do anyway?"

"I am a fashion designer in Scotland. Well, right now, I collect second hand clothing and recombine it to make better looking second hand clothing. That way, I don't have a regular job and can keep the social security pay."

She pulled on the seatbelt to get the space to move her body sideways. She faced him gently and seriously at the same time.

"I hope you don't mind me getting too personal. However, I noticed that you are uncircumcised. You realize that's why you can't have blowjobs. So, you have to butt fuck."

"That is oddly forward, little bird. What's it to you anyway?"

"Well, I am on my way to Hot Carling Academy. It's a school where you learn how to butt fuck. It's in England, because they are all uncircumcised there."

"You kids have a school for everything these days."

"Well, I will leave a business card of the school here, in case you change your mind."

Charlotte got off at the center of Nantwich.

PART II

Charlotte sat on a flimsy wooden stool in her room that she rented in a boarding house. The house was on the slope of a small hill. Through the old window with the paint-crackling wooden cross in the center, she could see the single story buildings, trees and slivers of lawn beneath. White clouds chased across a pale blue sky.

Beneath the window a small iron heater worked hard to warm the small room. The small room contained the small bed with the neat linen stretched, a small bookshelf with worn books gifted by friends, and a clothing rack with her small wardrobe. Everything was in soft colors, nothing with a screaming bright color. That's how she wanted her life, never to be touched too strongly.

On the old, shallow wooden desk in front of her were a sewing machine, rolls of multi-colored yarn, and clothing samples half stitched together from last night. There was also the flier for the Hot Carling Academy. The cartoon figure of Mr. Carling had an oversized head and warm smile.

Her last long-term boyfriend had made her love anal. However, all her subsequent boyfriend escapades had only consisted of young overly eager penises bouncing around painfully in her ass. The flyer had been piquing her curiosity for weeks. At first, she had wanted to throw it away after a girl had shoved it into her hand outside a store. However, she ended up keeping it, planning to throw it away only to pull it out every now and then and wonder how exquisitely a well trained man would be able to give her that special anal feeling, that special sensual explosion, that special intensity that came from a long anal love making session.

Today, she had pulled the flyer out for a final time. The class that she had eyed all along was today. This was her last moment of daring: to step out of her Sterling cocoon to drive down to the wild England. She was ready to go. She had a long floral dress and her warm leather jacket. Her large handbag had condoms, mineral lube, a romance novel for the trip, and a plastic emergency shell to pull over for the rain.

She pushed the flyer and business card into her handbag and stepped out of the squalid boarding house. The time to have a little fun, a little indulgence, and a little woman time had come. Hitching a ride was easy. A beaten and bleached blue passenger car with underinflated tires stopped quickly. A young working woman with a toddler in the back picked her up.

The driver with her long gently wavy blond hair hurriedly pushed kid toys out of the passenger seat into the back. At the same time, the driver acknowledged Charlotte's beautiful smile. Then, they went off. The driver in jeans and a hoodie quickly chattered about her life. One passage around Larkhall stuck particularly in Charlotte's mind.

"I used to be in the tough corner like you a couple years ago, before I meet my hubbie who works at the steel factory. I lived of social security. And, just the cheap food that you have to buy on that limited money, it really ravishes your body. My hair lost its luster. I am not putting you down girl, you are beautiful. But my enthusiasm for life vanished. I just accepted whatever came."

"The best thing that I did in that situation was giving hand jobs. Giving hand jobs is nothing like being a prostitute. You don't have them sweating all over you. Nothing goes into your body. You just handle a little something."

"You don't get as much money. And that is a good thing. Because all my friends that sold their body, they ended up spending, big time. And then they needed more money. With hand jobs you just get a little bit, enough to live a decent live and slowly claw your way out or move to London."

"Now, I think of hand jobs as of renewable energy. I tried bagging groceries. After a few months, the repetitive motion has you sick and disabled. I tried one of those high stress low pay jobs. After a few months, your brain is burned out. You only have one body and one mind. They are like oil. Once you deplete them, they are gone. But, your erotic expression, it doesn't go away. You have those boobs morning to evening. And someone looking at them doesn't use them up. Just like sunlight, you can milk them all day and the next morning, your sexy lips are just as sexy."

Charlotte had been sitting silently, taking in the peer working-class woman's advice.

"A lot of my friends have gone to selling their bodies or selling drugs. I always thought that just by filling out the forms at the unemployment office and staying away from alcohol and drugs, a person should get by."

"Nah, Charlotte, if you aren't born with parents that teach you, connect you, and send you to the right schools, you ain't got a chance."

And, then the conversation took another turn about baby diapers and choosing the right baby food. Further down the road, almost at Nantwich, the mother left Charlotte at a truck stop, wishing her well.

The truck stop was one of those roadside stops with large parking spots for eighteen wheelers. Standing on the parking lot, your soul could feel the draft of cars swooshing by. Charlotte retreated into the shelter of the truck stop restaurant, a square concrete bunker of a building with half broken neon sign.

Inside a minimal cafeteria welcomed her with the warmth of a shrug. The walls and fixtures were as anonymous as the concrete of the road. She sat down at a metal counter near the order wheel. The waitress had day by day absorbed the ugliness of the passing truck drivers until her face had turned wench-like. With all the grace of a ragged-eared alley cat, she yelled at Charlotte "What d'ya want?"

"A soup of the day, please."

"It's Mulligatawny today. Is that alright?"

"Yes, please."

She sat there silently in the cold room with the cold lighting. She glanced over the customers to weigh her options of offering a hand job. There were only two men at a table. They didn't face each other and only occasionally talked. It was like they were biding their time.

The younger of them was dressed in soccer clothing. His face was hardened and twitchy like a hooligan. The idea of being alone with him in a restroom stall scared her. There was something about the abrupt tapping of his shoes on the floor that made him seem violent and brash.